‘No, thank you. And since we have no money he’ll have to go into a pauper’s grave or whatever it is you do for the poor.’
They drove the rest of the way up to the plateau in silence, as Bruno wondered how a girl with a Louis Vuitton bag and wearing Shalimar could have no money. At the farm, she paused only to change from her high heels into a pair of cheap trainers from her bag and left him without a word. Five minutes later, he followed, knocked and let himself into the kitchen where mother and daughter were embracing. Francette was dry-eyed.
‘I told her,’ Francette said. ‘Thanks for bringing me here. We’d like to be alone now.’
‘If you want a lift to the funeral home or help with the arrangements, here’s my card with all my numbers. There is a death grant available which can cover the funeral expenses and I also have to post the death on the Mairie noticeboard, where we usually add the time and date of the funeral service, so let me know,’ he said. ‘Please accept my condolences, I’m sorry for your loss.’
He’d wanted to ask her how she got the thick lip and how long she was planning to spend at her mother’s place and whether they’d like him to make some inquiries among other farmers about renting their grazing land. He’d have to go back at some point and all his questions could wait.
Back in his office, he phoned the Mayor at home to tell him of Junot’s death, emailed to himself the photo of Athénaïs that Gilles had sent to his phone and printed several copies, each of which he put into a transparent plastic sleeve. He checked his emails and found a new one from Isabelle, sent from her phone, that said ‘Missing you and Balzac already’ and replied ‘We miss you too.’ On an impulse, he added: ‘Any information on Béatrice-Amélie Constant, currently managing the auberge at St Philippon for Count Vexin, gratefully received.’ He changed into the spare uniform he kept in his cupboard and headed out to his next task.
The same shy maid met him at the doorway of the Red Château where he asked to see Madame de la Gorce. On a long oak table in the entrance hall was a tray with a number of envelopes, two of them addressed to Monsieur le comte de Vexin and two more to Lionel Foucher. One of the letters to the Count was from a firm in Paris named Gallotin, which reminded Bruno of something but he couldn’t place it. He was thumbing through his notebook to jog his memory when the maid returned.
‘Madame de la Gorce will be with you shortly and suggests you might wait in the library.’ She led the way through double doors and into a long room whose tall windows looked out across the fields that ran down to the river. Between the windows and along the length of the other walls were bookshelves, twice as tall as Bruno, and filled with old books covered in leather. There were two large desks at either end of the library, two easy chairs of leather and a reading stand that contained what looked like a large and venerable bible. Bruno crossed the room to examine it. The cover was unusually heavy, made of wood that had been covered with black leather, and the paper felt thick as he turned the pages. The print inside looked ancient and the chapter headings were embellished with ornate drawings of animals that he suspected had been painted by hand. The inside of the front cover was filled with a hand-drawn family tree, so large that a second and third trunk sprawled over onto the next page. In its branches were inscribed names and dates of baptisms and funerals going back to the early eighteenth century, all in beautiful cursive scripts.
Tracing the branches he found the Red Countess, baptized in 1926, and her sister, Héloïse, baptized two years later. But the family tree showed them to have been born to different mothers. The Countess’s mother had died soon after her birth and her father had then remarried. Quickly he scribbled the names and dates into his notebook, along with the names of children. Knowing he wouldn’t have time to copy down the entire family tree he pulled out his phone and took a series of photos of the large flyleaf with its neat sprawl of names and dates.
In 1945 the two half-sisters had each given birth shortly before the end of the war. The Countess had a daughter, Françoise, who herself had given birth in 1968 to another daughter, Athénaïs. So Gilles was right: the dead woman was indeed the granddaughter of the Countess. The younger sister, Héloïse, had borne a son, Louis-Antoine, and he in turn had a son, César, in 1970. That would be the man Bruno knew as Count Vexin. What Bruno didn’t see in the family tree was any reference to the names of the fathers of the children born to the Countess and her half-sister.
He was looking for more information in the end papers when he heard the double doors open and the sister of the Red Countess appeared.
‘You wanted to see me?’ she said curtly.
‘Bonjour, Madame. Thank you for receiving me. I was just admiring your wonderful old family bible.’
‘Please don’t touch. It’s very fragile.’
‘My apologies. Could you confirm that this woman is your great-niece, please?’ He handed her one of the printouts in its sleeve.
She took it to the window and lifted her spectacles, hanging from a gold chain around her neck, held them close to her eyes and then let them drop.
‘What a peculiar expression on her face,’ she said. ‘But yes, that is my great-niece Françoise.’
‘Might she be using the name Athénaïs?’
‘Françoise-Athénaïs is her first name, so yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Is this another picture of her?’ He showed her the close-up of the face of the dead woman taken in the pathology lab.
‘Yes, I think it is, but it’s a very strange picture and why are her eyes closed?’
‘Do you not remember me showing you and your staff this photo a couple of days ago when you said you didn’t recognize her?’
‘My memory isn’t what it was. Nor is my eyesight. I can’t say I recognized that photo. It’s been a long time since I saw her. She lives in America, you know.’
‘You have not seen her here at the château or in France in the past month?’
‘No, I said so. What is this?’
‘I must take a formal statement to that effect, Madame. We have had an inquiry from California asking if your great-niece has returned to France, and to respond I need a brief statement from you. I have the form here …’
‘I don’t have time for this,’ she interrupted.
‘That’s quite all right, Madame,’ he said reassuringly, taking out a form and beginning to scribble as he spoke. ‘I shall write down very briefly that you recognize your great-niece from the photograph but have not seen her in France for the past month and then show it you for your approval and signature.’
‘Are you sure I should not summon my lawyer, or perhaps my grandson, César?’ she asked nervously, looking across at the silent maid. Bruno noted to himself the confirmation that the Count was her grandson.
‘As you wish, Madame, but it is just a formality.’ He read out the curt statement and she signed, albeit reluctantly.
‘If your grandson is here I’d like to ask him the same question,’ he said.
‘He’s here this weekend, but not in the house. He’s gone out with Foucher and the nurse somewhere. I shall tell them you called.’
‘Please do, and say that I shall phone for an appointment to see each of them as soon as possible.’
He put his cap back on, saluted and left. No point in pressing her further, Bruno thought. It was just possible that Athénaïs had come to the château secretly, taken the punt, committed her spectacular suicide and never been seen by the old lady, who seemed sure that Athénaïs was still in California. Possible, but highly unlikely.
He was tempted to stay in the courtyard until the Count, Foucher and Eugénie returned, but he had paperwork to do on Junot’s death, Hector to ride and a dinner engagement with Gilles from Paris-Match. Back in his office, the first was soon dispatched. Then he began to read the research file on the Count and his business associates that Isabelle had emailed him. When read in conjunction with Lemontin’s researches, it looked like a strong case for the presumption of fraud. He opened a new file on
his computer, scanned in the key documents from Lemontin’s file along with Foucher’s insider-trading conviction and then drafted a brisk one-page summary of the key facts and his concerns. He printed it all out for the Mayor and then forwarded it to J-J with a note suggesting that his financial fraud experts might want to start their own inquiry.
The Mayor was in his greenhouse, transplanting seedlings, when Bruno arrived. Little Balzac scampered in from the garden to roll his ears over Bruno’s foot. He handed over his report on the holiday village, picked up Balzac and told the Mayor of Francette’s claim that she and her mother had no money to bury her father. The Mayor wiped his hands on the seat of his pants to clean off the potting soil and skimmed through the file Bruno had brought. He then turned back to read carefully through Bruno’s own summary.
‘I have a meeting of the Conseil-Général in Périgueux tomorrow afternoon and I’ll give a copy of this to one of the legal experts to see what we can do to protect ourselves if this project goes ahead,’ the Mayor said. ‘That’s a very intelligent puppy you have there. He sniffed his way all around the garden and ended up down by the bench, at Bardot’s grave. He sat there, looked up at me, threw his head back and gave a little infant howl. It brought tears to my eyes.’
Bardot had been the Mayor’s own basset hound, a dog whose hunting skills were a local legend. She had also been the mother of Bruno’s dog Gigi, a gift from the Mayor when he had first arrived in St Denis to take up the post of municipal policeman. Bruno had helped dig her grave.
‘By the way, the Baron came by earlier with Adrien from the tourist office and Florence from the choir, just to say everything was under way for tomorrow’s ceremony at the cave. Florence has been working on the lighting plan and the sound system with Marcel. It sounds like they’re planning quite a show. And the announcement of the exorcism has been running on the radio. Périgord-Bleu called me for a quick interview over the phone. They’ve also had Father Sentout on the air, who announced that he had permission from his bishop to conduct a special ceremony. We aren’t short of publicity. I gather the news was first released by Paris-Match. Was that something to do with you?’
Bruno confessed that it was and braced himself for a burst of mayoral anger.
‘In this case, I approve,’ the Mayor said. ‘It seems to have caused a lot of interest, but in future perhaps you’d run these bright ideas of yours past me first. Off you go, and I’ll see you at the cave in the morning. ’
Bruno left with Balzac tucked into the crook of his arm, thinking of the courteous but unmistakable way he’d been rebuked. In the army he’d had officers, supposedly trained leaders of men, without half the natural-born common sense that the Mayor brought to his running of the town and the staff he’d assembled.
Balzac quivered with excitement when Bruno parked his van in Pamela’s courtyard. As soon as he opened the door Balzac darted out and trotted straight to the stables. Bruno knew that Fabiola was planning to stay late at the medical centre and it would be his turn to take Victoria and Bess on the evening ride. But first he wanted to call Pamela to see if she knew when she’d be arriving back from Scotland.
‘I’m in the stables about to take the evening ride,’ he began when she answered.
‘I’ll be back for Easter,’ she replied, adding that the cheapest discount flight she had found was on Good Friday.
She was thinking a lot about money. Her bank had reviewed the likely costs of her mother’s care and the almost certain need to sell her mother’s house to pay for it. There was a complex legal procedure to be undergone before she could be granted power of attorney over her mother’s estate and have the right to sell her mother’s house. Even then, she would only be able to use the funds for her mother’s care. It was money she’d been counting on to pay off the balance of her French mortgage. Bruno sensed that the real topic on Pamela’s mind was the option of going back to her wealthy ex-husband.
He made supportive noises as Pamela spoke. With one part of his mind he understood her dilemma and her sense of duty to her mother. But all his instincts were pushing him to tell her not to tie herself once more into an already failed marriage simply for the financial security it brought.
But what did he know, as an orphan, of the strong ties of love and obligation between a daughter and her mother? He felt further constrained by his own role as her lover, privileged to share her bed often enough, but only at her invitation, and after being told repeatedly that she wanted neither a lasting nor a committed relationship. It still meant that any advice he gave could be construed as self-interest. It left him tongue-tied.
‘I dreamed about you last night,’ she said, which added a touch of guilt to his thoughts at the memory of Isabelle in his arms. ‘It reminded me of how much I miss you, and Fabiola and my house and Victoria and Bess. But it’s not long now and I’ll see you on Friday. Give the horses a hug from me.’
24
Bruno had not been happy with simply stuffing Balzac into his chest as he rode, worrying that the puppy would squirm free or burrow his way out at the waist. Seeing Pamela’s binoculars, inherited from her father, hanging on a hook in the stable gave him an idea. They were an old-fashioned pair with long lenses of the kind he’d seen carried by German U-boat commanders in war movies. He picked up Balzac and inserted him gently inside the leather case. It was so deep the little dog could not see out of the top and gazed pitifully up at him. Bruno extracted him gently, stuffed one of the stable cloths into the bottom and tried again. The fit was perfect, so he hung the case around his neck and tied the long side-straps to fix it around his chest.
With Victoria and Bess on a leading rein, he took Hector along the lane at a walk before turning off into the field that led up to the woods along the ridge. The case was firm against his chest and Balzac’s head was peeking over its rim, his long ears flopping up and down to either side with Hector’s stride.
‘You look lost in thought,’ came a woman’s voice, and he looked up to see Bess and Victoria approaching the white mare, on which sat Eugénie with an amused expression on her face. ‘We’ve been watching you as you came up to the ridge. I got the message that you wanted to see me and I thought I’d take the opportunity for another ride. I didn’t realize you’d be playing the part of a mother kangaroo.’
She pointed at Balzac in his case and gave a wide grin, the first Bruno had ever seen on her usually controlled face.
‘It may look odd, but it works,’ he said.
‘It looks sweet. You must have a maternal side to your nature,’ she replied, her eyes lively with amusement.
Normally he’d enjoy being teased by an attractive woman. But not this one, and not this time.
‘I wanted to show you a photograph of the woman in the boat,’ he said. ‘We may have identified her, but I don’t have it with me. I also wanted to talk to you about this development project you’re involved in. You’re a long way from home.’
‘It didn’t take me long to get here.’ She nudged her mare and they began walking side by side towards the forest ride that would take her back to the Gouffre. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘It’s about the development at Thivion. The Mayor there has told our Mayor that he felt his town had been defrauded, and that what you built fell a long way short of the quality you’d promised.’
‘It’s true, it did fall short, but that wasn’t our fault.’
It was the timing, she explained. When the financial crisis hit the American mortgage market their funding had dried up at the bank. She claimed that she, the Count and Foucher had worked with the Mayor to salvage what they could of the deal, but the Count had lost money in the process. That was the risk that any property development would face, most of all in the worst global recession in seventy years. She launched into a long and complex explanation of the different companies involved in the deal that simply left Bruno confused.
‘So this could happen again with St Denis?’ he asked.
‘No, the funding is sec
ure this time. It’s not from a bank.’
‘The people of Thivion have some serious allegations against your company. Perhaps I should say companies. There seem to have been several of them involved at various times.’
She dug her heels into her horse’s side, rode on a few yards and wheeled the horse to confront him.
‘If we’d been trying to defraud Thivion, they could have taken us to court,’ she said, rising in the stirrups, her eyes blazing. ‘And believe me they tried, but all the lawyers they consulted said they had no case. I know because I had to put my name to sworn statements, spelling out what really happened. We worked night and day trying to make that deal work, and if that damn Mayor of Thivion had guaranteed the loan we’d have had the money to build the place as we planned and the whole project would have worked.’
Her horse was shying at the tension coming from Eugénie and she had to walk it in a circle to calm it, patting her mare’s neck and forcing herself to calm down. Hector, aware of some change in the mood, backed slightly away.
‘They have no right to make such accusations against us, against me,’ she said, calmer now, but her voice still tight. ‘There was no fraud, and there’s no fraud in what we’re trying to do here with St Denis. The Count’s grandmother lives here, for heaven’s sake. Would he be trying to cheat the town on his family’s own doorstep? It’s absurd.’
It was plausible. Bruno was aware that the courts were filled with cases of property deals that had been aborted by the recession and most of them were thrown out or settled out of court.
‘There’s a simple solution,’ he said. ‘If the funding is secure, then it can be put into escrow so we know it’s there.’
‘It doesn’t work like that. We have written confirmation of the funding but no money will be released until we start work.’
‘In that case, my Mayor will almost certainly want some sizeable collateral before he commits town funds for the preliminary work. How about the Auberge St Philippon? That belongs to the Count, I believe?’
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